


Supernova

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aunt/Nephew Incest, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Post-episode: S07E03, unknowing incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 06:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11663844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: She’d been perched like a doll on the rough, jagged throne in the great hall, a throne more suited to men twice her size. The Dothraki warriors at her sides held great curved blades that twitched threateningly in his direction when he’d done nothing more than take two steps forward towards her, and if the Dothraki hadn’t been able to skewer him, the dragons circling outside with their wild cries certainly could have, and yet Jon had felt a queer urge to protect her. To gather her close like a child and keep her from harm, even as she threatened him. To touch her milk-pale skin and see if it was as soft as it looked.That had raised his ire almost as much as her imperiousness. He’d thought he’d grown out of being victim to such vulnerable urges long ago.





	Supernova

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefairfleming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/gifts).



> Set after season 7, episode 3, The Queen's Justice, **_spoilers through the same._**

In the end she gives him all he wanted, all he could have asked for. Dragonglass, men, resources. An ally of sorts, however uncomfortably allied they may be. After her anger at his refusal to bend the knee, it’s more than he could have hoped, and yet Jon feels dissatisfied and restless. He feels, unaccountably, as if he’s failed.

He hadn’t known he’d want her to believe him.

She’s younger than he expected, more beautiful than he could have imagined. Jon has known lovely women – Catelyn Stark, Val, his own sister Sansa, who, even after her terrible flight North, had arrived at the wall with the sweet, delicate beauty that the prettiness of her youth had promised – but never has he seen a woman quite like the Dragon Queen.

She’d been perched like a doll on the rough, jagged throne in the great hall, a throne more suited to men twice her size. The Dothraki warriors at her sides held great curved blades that twitched threateningly in his direction when he’d done nothing more than take two steps forward towards her, and if the Dothraki hadn’t been able to skewer him, the dragons circling outside with their wild cries certainly could have, and yet Jon had felt a queer urge to protect her. To gather her close like a child and keep her from harm, even as she threatened him. To touch her milk-pale skin and see if it was as soft as it looked.

That had raised his ire almost as much as her imperiousness. He’d thought he’d grown out of being victim to such vulnerable urges long ago.

The night air is cool as it filters through the windows of his chamber – his cell, really, for all that Tyrion claims otherwise – but Jon lies abed with the furs kicked aside, only his smallclothes protecting him from the cold. He doesn’t much suffer from cold these days; death had been colder than anything life can hold, after all, and Dragonstone is warmer than Winterfell either way. The dragons have ceased their circling, but he can hear them from time to time, the leathery creak of their wings, the heavy gust of their breathing as they settle somewhere in the hold for the night. He thinks of Ghost, left far behind in Winterfell to protect Sansa as she holds their home. Once he’d thought he’d never be parted from Ghost again. He’s found himself doing many things he’d never thought to do, of late.

The murmur of a feminine voice reaches his ears, and Jon’s body is instantly alert in a way that has him clenching his teeth and cursing at himself. He cannot tell if it’s her or her aide, the woman named Missandei, but his body doesn’t care. It’s been so long. Ygritte seems a lifetime ago, more than a lifetime, like a story told to him about someone else's life. She hadn’t been beautiful, nor even truly pretty, though it hadn’t stopped him from wanting her, or even loving her after a fashion. Gods, how he’d wanted her. He’d still held his vows sacred then, believing his life to be dedicated to something greater than love or desire or the taste and feel of a woman, but it hadn't been able to stop his wanting.

He holds no such vows now, and his body knows it however much his mind hates that knowledge. She’s a Queen, a stranger, a potential ally. A woman who’s known pain and degradation such as Jon can’t imagine. His cock doesn’t care, and with a mingled sense of shame and relief, Jon allows himself to give in.

It’s Daenerys’s voice he imagines as he tugs at the lace of his smallclothes and slips one hand inside to take hold of his cock, hissing with pleasure at the sensation. With a shock, he realizes he hasn’t done this for moons, since Melisandre brought him back to life. There had been no time, no inclination. No reason. No warmth in his heart for anything but Sansa, who had become more a sister to him than she’d ever been before. But now… Now it’s as if it took coming South for Jon Snow to finally thaw.

He imagines Daenerys as she was earlier, standing on the rampart and painted in sunlight, her face like a statue come to life. Her hand would be small and soft around his cock, her cunt warm and so very lovely. Gods, but Jon has missed cunt. The feel of it, the smell of it, the taste of it, even just the thought of it. He wonders now how he’d ever thought to dedicate himself to a life without all the pleasures of women and bedsport. A life without softness, without warmth, only the cold comfort of honor and duty. No matter that at times he's longed for the simplicity and order of his life with the Night’s Watch, he would never make such sacrifices again. Not now that he knows exactly what it is he’s missing.

His hand speeds, his thumb slipping over the head of his cock and smoothing the moisture there down his length. He lets himself grunt aloud in satisfaction, needing to hear it, wanting evidence that he’s alive, that he’s wholly in this world. In his mind, he sees Daenerys a hundred ways; lying bare and welcoming on silken furs; riding atop him as Tyrion has said she rides her dragons; peeking up at him with those great violet eyes as she closes her warm mouth around his cock; all silver pale and rosy pink, with her knees spread wide for him to feast, the tang of her desire on his tongue tasting better than any wine ever could.

Jon grunts again, feeling his release start to gather already. The feeling of transgression only adds to the force of it, and he has to bite his lip to keep from shouting as he comes hard enough that he feels as if he might shake apart into bits of light and heat, his spend striping his stomach and coating his knuckles. After his breathing has slowed and grown even, he pulls his hand from his smallclothes, absently wiping his hand on the furs. He’ll have to clean the furs himself in the wash basin before morning, as he used to do in Winterfell when he was a boy and didn’t want anyone to know what he did all too often in the night. The thought makes him want to laugh almost as much as it closes his throat with grief for how much has been lost since he was that boy.

Tomorrow, he thinks, he’ll tell her about Robb. They’ll speak of the brothers they lost and she’ll be a Queen and he a King. But for now, all he wants is to think of her and explode all over again.


End file.
